A half-track disintegrated under two simultaneous hammer blows, body parts and weapons thrown in all directions, momentum driving the burning hulk forward, a fiery hearse containing a dozen young men.
An M5 Stuart light tank was halted, the furthest forward vehicle in the advance, smoke gently drifting from open hatches. The impetuous cavalrymen who had crewed it bolted in all directions, trying hard to find cover before Soviet machine gun bullets found them, and in all but one case failed.
A second flare rose from the Soviet position. The Colonel had no time to think before the crack of more powerful weapons were heard and tanks began to die in earnest.
The Soviet 179th’s Regiment’s TOE contributed four Zis-3 76.2mm guns to the fight but the ace played by Artem’yev was the battery from the Army’s independent anti-tank regiment, consisting of one additional Zis-3 and a pair of 100mm BS-3 guns.
A late addition to the Soviet war inventory, the penetrating capability of the 100mm was awesome and nothing on the field that day was going to be able to resist its shells.
To the American Commander it seemed that the Grim Reaper was at work on the field in front of him. Clearly, the answer was for his tanks to press closer, supported by whatever mortars and artillery he could lay his hands on. To close and use weight of shot and shell to overcome the defenders, for to withdraw meant an end to his attack and probably an end to his unit. He added the B/23rd reserve force to the headlong charge.
Three knocked-out Sherman’s became five before his gaze, his binoculars remaining glued to his face as he rapped out orders, orders intended to save his command from being butchered but which only hastened its end.
His artillery officer called in vain to the 495th Artillery supporting them, the American artillery presently being on the end of a severe aerial attack and unable to save themselves, let alone contribute to the debacle developing nine miles away.
The Armored-Infantry’s self-propelled M7 battery, stationed adjacent to Fuchstadt, waited on orders from a dead fire-controller whose OP vehicle had long since been destroyed. The three M7 SP guns failed to open fire when it might have made a difference.
Once Artem’yev saw the American tanks driving harder at his lines he prepared the third flare and, when they had reached the most advantageous position, launched it to initiate the final phase of the plan.
The twenty T-34-85’s of 1st and 2nd Companies, 242nd Tank Brigade had been concealed in dead ground in exactly the same position occupied some hours beforehand by the ill-fated 2nd Battery 975th Artillery Regiment.
They burst from cover to be confronted with the unprotected right flank of an under fire and under pressure American tank battalion.
The American tank platoon at the crossroads engaged them as quickly as they could but it did not save many of their fellow tankers. Seven A Company Sherman’s received telling hits in as many seconds.
In any case, that covering platoon was suddenly confronted by a Russian tank company and headquarters unit with infantry support coming from further north. Twelve armoured green beetles spewing fire and seemingly intent on running over the top of them and on into Rottenbauer, already sweeping the demoralized remnants of the 1st Platoon’s troopers in front of them.
The third flare also had another purpose, and its flight cued in the supporting artillery battery, whose 122mm shells descended on the troops in Fuchstadt. The three M7’s took the opportunity to displace according to standard doctrine, withdrawing from the field in disarray.
The six 120mm mortars of the 179th Regiments heavy battery targeted Albertshausen and ‘killed’ an M-16 half-track from the 573rd with their first salvo.
23rd Tank Battalion and its supporting elements were on the precipice, and only firm resolute leadership would save them from disaster.
The American Colonel snatched the radio mike from the hand of his operator, his response prepared and ready to pass on to his dwindling force.
A Soviet OF-471H standard issue HE-fragmentation round contained 3.8 kilos of high-explosive, and the whole projectile could arrive on a target nearly twenty thousand metres away, delivering twenty-five kilograms of fragmentation power.
The particular round in question had left gun No. 2 of the Divisional Heavy Battery some seconds beforehand, lovingly wiped clean and slid into the breech of his A19 122mm field gun by a leathery old man who wished for no more than a swift return to his modest existence in the Ural mountains.
In truth, most of the OF-471H’s destructive power was wasted, as a fraction of it was all that was needed to eradicate the entire mobile command group of the 12th’s Combat Command ‘B’.
The round struck the apex of the dormer roof above where the Colonel was stood, radio handset at the ready. It did not explode, instead carrying on and obliterating the radio operator before surrendering up its destructive force at bedroom floor level.
If nothing else, it was quick.
The Sherman’s were fighting back, some reversing, keeping their front to the enemy. A few others turned tail and ran, quickly falling victim to anti-tank guns or T-34’s who lapped up kills on tanks displaying their weak areas of armour. The half-tracks fared badly, falling victims to the complete range of Soviet weaponry, one limping home with its full nearside bogie set removed by a 100mm shell.
More casualties were sustained as tanks and transports strayed into artillery and mortar zones, fire being shifted expertly by the Artillery Officer who was already on Colonel Artem’yev recommendation list, along with more than a few others in this wondrous victory.
Switching the rest of the 2nd Battalion to go to the aid of their beleaguered comrades in Rottenbauer, he watched in satisfaction as the 242nd Tank Brigade swept the field clean. He witnessed the sight of one vehicle turned into an instant fireball by a bazooka hit and then watched the dead tanker’s comrades avenge themselves by first machine-gunning then crushing the group responsible.
A pair of B Company Sherman’s dropped in behind shallow ridges to the north of Fuchsstadt and tried to cover the disorganised retreat.
Both scored hits, the first bounced off the tank unit commander’s vehicle having given the crew a huge fright, the second struck the driver’s hatch of the vehicle behind him flat on the vision slit just as the tank dipped into a depression.
It did not emerge into sight again; instead, the view became clouded with a rich oily smoke, marking the loss of more sons of Mother Russia.
Vengeful comrades hurled shell after shell at the brave Americans, occasionally hitting but not causing terminal damage.
Another T-34 shuddered to a halt, this time one from the outflanking force descending from Rottenbauer in the north. No fire, no smoke, no life.
An American half-track [D] burst from the village behind them, bouncing along in their wake, unseen by those closest, recognised by others more distant but immune from harm because of the nearness of their comrades.
Against all the odds it escaped, dropping into a small cut that took it northeast towards the river.
An M-16 ran from Albertshausen, its quad .50 mount lashing out at anything in range [E].
It died, victim of the fog of war, in this case smashed by a friendly bazooka round, hastily aimed by a terrified infantryman virtually blinded by smoke. Three men escaped, two more ran around, thrashing in their agony as flames slowly consumed them.